Snippets of Destiny
by slef
Summary: Tracing Martin Septim's life through the eyes of Lark, a minstrel Blade. Chapter 8 moves into Game Time, spoilers are inevitable. Chapter 9 definitely contains spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you...
1. Misbegotten Martin

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 1: Misbegotten Martin**

The cave mouth gaped ominously.

The boy, out of breath from running, gave the matter little thought, and disappeared into the depths before the gang of youths chasing him could see where he had gone. He stumbled over rocks in the darkness but kept going until he was sure that no-one was following him. Then he collapsed, sobbing, onto a patch of sand.

"I am Martin, son of Beran Retienne," he finally gasped. "How could they say otherwise?"

All his life he had lived on his father's farm south of Chorrol, secure in the safety of his family and his roots. Yesterday had been his eighth birthday, and today his father had allowed him to take the mule laden with cans of milk to town by himself for the first time. The trip there - about ten miles - had gone smoothly, and he had delivered the milk to the shopkeeper without trouble. The man had paid him and he had carefully stowed the coins in the pouch on his belt.

When he had left the city gate, leading the mule, he had suddenly found himself surrounded by a crowd of jeering boys. He knew some of them slightly, having seen them in town on previous trips with his father. One, a 14-year-old named Jamal, had bullied him before, until his father had gotten Jamal's father to put a stop to it. Martin suddenly felt afraid because he was all alone.

"What do you want?" he asked, trying to look unconcerned.

Jamal swaggered to the front. "Look what we caught, boys. A rabbit, by the Nine!" The boys laughed. Jamal grabbed Martin by the collar of his shirt and half-lifted him off the ground. "A tale-telling rabbit, boys. Couldn't take a bit of friendly sport, he couldn't. So he ran to Daddy. Well I have news for you, you little bastard. Daddy ain't going to help you today. Will he, boys?"

Martin struggled to no avail as the boys laughed. He knew it would do no good to explain that it had not been him who had told his father. Jamal's little sister had told. She was six and was Martin's friend. He didn't want her to get hurt so he kept quiet.

Jamal started patting at Martin's pockets. "So you're going to give me those coins you got for the milk, and in return I'm going to give you a thrashing, rabbit." He found the pouch. "Ah, just the thing," he said as he extracted the money.

Martin couldn't stand for that. "That money belongs to my father," he yelled. "You have no right to take it!"

"Your father?" Jamal asked, an evil smile growing on his face. "And who would that be, rabbit?"

"You know as well as I do," Martin said, confused. "Beran Retienne."

To his surprise all the boys started laughing, and Jamal suddenly put a companionable arm around his shoulders. "Ah no, little rabbit. He sure ain't your Daddy."

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone can see you're no Breton, boy," Jamal told him. "You look like Imperial blood to me. I wonder who your Daddy was. The milkman?"

"Beran is the milkman, Jamal," another boy yelled.

"True," Jamal grinned. "I know, a bandit, lonely for company."

"A travelling merchant..."

"A soldier..."

"A goblin!"

"A big fat rabbit! Look at him, Jamal! Look how red his ears are!"

"It's not true, it's not true," Martin was muttering under his breath. Suddenly he wrenched himself free. "It's not true!" he screamed, and dashed through the throng and down the road; forgetting the mule, forgetting everything except to get away from his tormentors.

They ran after him, chanting "Misbegotten Martin, misbegotten Martin" until he heard himself repeating it syllable by syllable to the rhythm of his pounding feet. Then he turned a corner in the road, slipped off into the forest and disappeared into the cave before they saw him. The darkness and the silence did nothing to erase the horrible words in his mind.

Misbegotten Martin.

If it was true, what would that mean? Would anything change in his life? Did it matter? He did not know and could not focus on the problem while he was so upset. With a maturity beyond his years he decided to put the matter aside until he could think about it calmly, and finally looked at his surroundings.

He could see nothing at all. His rush into the cave had taken him down a corridor that curved away from what little light penetrated from the outside, and he could not even be sure which way that was. Far from making him panic, this setback seemed to calm him even further, and he quickly recalled the spell the monk had taught him to make light. It was not a very powerful spell and he had mastered it more than a year ago. The monk had told him it was good to know because you never knew when you might need it.

Martin quietly said the invocation and a softly glowing nimbus of light surrounded him. He regretted not having had something useful to show those bullies a thing or two, and resolved to learn all he could about magic when the chance presented itself.

In the light he could see his footprints in the sand, leading to the exit, but he had no wish to go outside and meet the band of roving bullies once more, so he turned and made his way deeper into the cave. The corridor lead downwards at a gentle slope, and was surprisingly smooth. Twice it made sharp turns, before going fairly straight for a while. Then, after another turn, he came to a pile of rocks that obstructed the way.

Thinking he would have to turn back, he noticed a crack in the wall, just large enough for an eight-year-old boy to squeeze through. Even so, he got stuck halfway and lost some buttons and some skin before he managed to get through, although by then he would have been happy to get back out if only he could move.

Once through, he stared in wonder. His light revealed a chamber comfortably furnished with wall hangings, screens and carpets. A bed stood along one wall and some crates and cupboards along another. There was a writing desk and a shelf filled with strange objects. For all the comfort, it looked as if it had not been lived in for a long time, since everything was covered with dust and cobwebs.

Martin carefully looked around without touching anything, wondering who had lived there and where he had gone. He found the door to the chamber and followed the corridor back to the opposite side of the rock fall that had blocked his way before.

There, sticking out from under the rocks, he discovered some old bones still dressed in the remains of a black robe. Martin felt no revulsion or fear when he saw the bones. His father had taught him never to be afraid of things he could see and touch. Satisfied that he had found the previous inhabitant of the cave, he decided to see what he could find in the chamber.

When he emerged from the cave, hours later, he was carrying a bundle containing some books, a few strange crystals, a glowing dagger and quite a bit of gold. There was still a lot of loot in the cave but he knew he would have to come back for it another time.

He hoped the gold would placate his father for losing the mule, but to his delight he found the mule making its leisurely way home along the road, and the catastrophe abruptly shrunk to just a philosophical problem.

Misbegotten Martin.

He arrived home hours late and had to endure a scolding from his mother, Sathna Retienne. He accepted it because he knew he had lingered longer than necessary in the cave. When his father came in to dinner, Martin gave him the bundle with the gold, books, crystals and dagger.

"I found this in a cave along the road," he said.

His father was delighted about the gold, less so about the crystals ("One could sell them, I suppose") and downright negative about the books.

"These are evil books, Martin," he explained as he burned them in the hearth. "Books about dark magic bring no good to anyone, least of all little boys. I won't have them in my house."

Martin accepted that too, trusting his father's greater experience, but decided not to bring the rest of the books in the cave home. He wanted to know about magic, and if his father did not see them, he could not tell Martin that they were evil.

After dinner he finally asked his father the question burning in his heart. "The boys in town said I don't look like a Breton," he started. "They said you can't be my father."

He watched as Beran's face turned slowly red. "Which boys said that?" he finally asked.

"Just some boys," Martin replied. "Is it true, Dad?"

Beran sighed. "It's true, son." He regarded Martin gravely. "Eight years ago a man begged lodging here one night, and he was carrying you wrapped in a bundle. He was wounded, had been attacked in the wilderness by a pack of wolves. I don't know how he managed to protect you. When Sathna saw you she was smitten. She'd wished for a child for so long. The man asked us to raise you, to protect you, as he wasn't sure he could do it, and we gladly accepted." He placed his hands on Martin's shoulders. "I don't know if he was your father or not, but for your Mother and I, you are our son and no-one can say otherwise."

"Then nothing will change?" Martin asked, relief making his voice tremble.

Beran embraced him. "Nothing will change, son."

_To be continued..._

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time a bit...


	2. Lark

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 2: Lark**

Lark sat down.

He glanced nervously around the office, waiting for Captain Jauffre to finish reading a dispatch. The office, little more than a cubicle in the wall of the Imperial Palace, nonetheless had a window affording a view over Green Emperor Way. Outside people walked purposefully or conversed in low voices so as not to disturb the Emperor or the Council in the Chambers. Inside, every surface was cluttered with papers, maps and dispatch cases - sources of information that the Blades analysed and acted upon in their duty to protect the Emperor.

Jauffre finally set the dispatch aside and studied Lark for a long moment. "Blade Silas," he acknowledged.

"You sent for me, Captain?" Lark asked, wondering if he had erred in answering the summons. Privately he suspected that someone had made a mistake in calling him, as he had not been a Blade very long and had never been asked to report to the Captain before.

"I did," Jauffre confirmed. "I have a special assignment for you." He searched for a particular piece of paper on his desk, found it and handed it to Lark. "I want you to go to Chorrol and find the farm of Beran Retienne. He's a milk farmer with a wife and 15-year-old son. I want you to befriend the boy and teach him all you know about combat, self defence and survival in general."

"A boy?" Lark asked incredulously, and mentally kicked himself as Jauffre fixed him with a disapproving look. "Sorry sir."

"I am aware of your background, Blade Silas," Jauffre continued. "I know you are well qualified for this task."

Jauffre was right, Lark reflected. He had grown up in a band of mercenaries who had taught him to fight since he was old enough to hold a blade. But what had attracted the attention of the Blades was not his skill as a fighter, but as a minstrel. Lark was named for his voice, and when Captain Jacques had found him he was teaching some youngsters the history of Cyrodiil with a ballad he had composed himself. Captain Jacques had asked him to join the Blades because he could travel incognito as a minstrel, but Lark had a nagging suspicion that Captain Jauffre did not altogether trust him.

"With respect, sir," Lark said after a moment's hesitation. "I joined the Blades to protect the Emperor..."

Jauffre sighed. "I know, Blade. But this task is more important than you can know. The boy is the Emperor's son. I entrust his safety to you, in the hope that you will never need to defend him, and in the hope that he will live his life never knowing his true legacy."

Lark sat speechless. He was to protect the Emperor's son? Guess they trusted him after all. He realised that he was staring with wide eyes at Jauffre, and cleared his throat. "I understand, sir. How long should I remain there?"

Jauffre leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, all trace of formality gone. "For as long as necessary." He sat back. "Go be a minstrel, Lark. Teach the boy to defend himself, keep an eye on him and live your life." He smiled. "You have far too fine a voice to waste it on a bunch of soldiers."

Lark was shocked. He had only just become a Blade, and now he was being exiled from that Brotherhood. "I am no longer a Blade, sir?"

"You will always be a Blade, Lark." Jauffre replied. "Just deeply under cover, if you will. You know the signs to identify yourself to other Blades. You need only ask and Blades will assist you, and you will always be welcome in our safe houses. I will arrange with Count Valga of Chorrol to pay your Blades salary as well. The Count will know your true status but not the reason why you are stationed there." He handed Lark a scroll. "Give this to the Count when you arrive."

Lark got up and stood at attention. "Yes sir! I will not let you down!"

Jauffre laughed. "I know you won't, Lark. But you had better lose the military manner."

Lark shrugged, relaxing. "I'm no good at it anyway."

"You are good at what counts," Jauffre told him. "Now go get that fat white horse of yours from the stable and get going."

"He's not fat," Lark protested. "He's just well-padded."

"The better to sit on," Jauffre agreed. "Good luck, Lark. Drop in whenever you can."

"Thank you, Captain," Lark replied. He saluted, turned briskly and marched out of Jauffre's office. Outside he dropped the military manner, this time for good.

The sun rose.

Lark was again dressed in his minstrel's garb of green leather pants, green-and-yellow striped shirt and knee-high leather riding boots. His sword hung from a loop on his saddle and his throwing knives were hidden about his body as usual. His armour was securely packed in a bundle behind him on the horse. The nice thing about Pavan, his admittedly fat horse, was that he did not mind Lark letting the reins hang loose while he played his lute as they plodded along. Pavan kept to the way of least resistance - the road - and Lark fancied that the horse even liked his playing and singing.

As they crested a hill, a magnificent stag bounded across the road ahead of them. It stopped for a moment to regard Lark with surprise, ears twitching at the sound of the lute. Then it startled and disappeared into the woods. The beauty of the moment inspired Lark and he started to pick out a new tune, using what he saw around him to fill in the details.

"_Where are you going_?" he sang. "_Alone there in the misty morn._"

He looked between the trunks of the old forest to see where the stag had gone. "_The trees have been growing before your ancestors were born._" The rising sun supplied the next line. "_Sunlight is peeking through the golden leaves of fall._" He remembered the stag's reaction to his lute. "_And you seem to be seeking the direction of some silent call._" A squirrel chattered at him as his passage disturbed it, so he wrote it in. "_Small creatures are working to gather food against the cold._" The road was strewn with autumn leaves. "_And sylvan load is lightening as fallen leaves turn gold._" Time to finish it off, he decided. "_Oh, where are you going? Poised there in primordial might._" What rhymes with 'might'? Ah. "_With merely a sense of knowing that dawn will follow after night._"

"That was beautiful," a voice said. "Won't you play it again?"

Lark looked down to see a youth step from the wood unto the road. About fifteen years old, Lark thought, wondering if this was the boy he would come to know so well. No need to rush anything.

"Certainly," he said and sang his new song again as the boy kept pace with the plodding horse. When he was done he introduced himself. "People call me Lark, and this is Pavan." He indicated the horse.

"I'm Martin Retienne," the boy said, confirming Lark's hunch. "What does 'Pavan' mean?"

"The wind," Lark replied.

Martin regarded the fat horse for a moment, politely trying not to laugh, and Lark rescued him from making an unfortunate remark. "In his young days, Pavan was indeed as swift as the wind, young master. But now that he's old and dignified we don't hold that against him."

Martin grinned. "Of course not." He considered something for a moment. "Have you had breakfast yet, Mister Lark?"

Lark laughed. "Just Lark will do. And yes, I did nibble on some dried rations an hour or so ago."

"Then perhaps you might like a real farm breakfast by now," Martin said. "I live not far from here."

It seemed to Lark as if the fates were arranging this meeting to go smoothly, which, knowing about the Septim bloodline, did not surprise him too much. "I would be honoured," he replied. His stomach growled in agreement.

Martin giggled. "Follow me," he said, and lead the way.

The kettle sang on the hearth.

Sathna Retienne stood up to set the tea steeping, and Martin gathered the used dishes from the table and carried them outside to wash them in the tub next to the well. Lark sat back. The 'real farm breakfast' of fresh bread, eggs and sausages left him replete, and he doubted he could move much for the moment.

"My thanks, Ma'am," he said. "That was a fine meal."

She smiled in reply and busied herself clearing up the kitchen.

"So you're a minstrel," Beran Retienne stated. "Where from?"

Lark considered his reply carefully, as Beran had been watching him rather intently during the meal. "Well, I grew up near Anvil," he said. "My father leads a band of fighters. Not bandits!" he said quickly as he saw Beran getting upset. "They do contract work for Count Umbranox, clearing goblins from mines, that sort of thing." Beran nodded. "Ever since I can remember, I could sing, and I could play the lute since I was seven. My real name is Silas, but pretty soon everyone just called me Lark."

"I see," Beran said. "So you decided to leave Anvil?"

"I wanted to see more of the world," Lark explained. "The Gold Coast is beautiful, but it is only one part of Cyrodiil. I left Anvil when I was eighteen, travelled to Kvatch, through Skingrad and on to Bravil. I stayed there for a few months, singing in a tavern, and then I moved on to Leyawin. I didn't stay there for long; I guess I'm not suited for the tropics." He grinned. "Then I did a long haul up the Nibenenay Valley, looked at Cheydinhal, and finally reached Bruma. It's very cold up in the Jerall Mountains, but those Nords tell the most amazing tales. Someone in Bruma told me to go to the Imperial City next, so that's where I ended up for almost a year. It's taken four years all told of singing for my supper in wayside inns, ratty dives and royal parlours to get here."

"You sang for the emperor?" Beran was sceptical.

"Not exactly," Lark grinned. "I sang in the emperor's parlour, but he wasn't there. I entertained some of the ladies of the court."

"From the court to Chorrol," Beran mused. "Quite a come down."

"Perhaps," Lark agreed. "But I haven't been to Chorrol yet, so here I am."

Beran suddenly laughed. "How about singing for your breakfast?"

"Of course," Lark said, getting up. "I'll just get my lute."

"No, no!" Beran stopped him. "I'll send Martin." Lark settled back into his seat. "Martin!" Beran yelled. "Fetch Lark's lute, please."

A few moments later Martin appeared with the lute, and they all settled down to listen. Lark adjusted the tuning. "What would you like to hear?"

"Play your song about the stag," Martin said quickly.

At nods from Beran and Sathna, Lark did so. He tried more intricate chording and fingering patterns this time, turning the simple tune into a more complex work with a counter melody worked in against the lyrical line. He did not look at his audience until the last note had faded. Sathna sat with her eyes closed, a smile on her lips. Beran was nodding in time with the music as if he still heard it. And Martin was sitting with his mouth open in awe.

"It didn't sound like that this morning!" he finally said.

"No," Lark said. "I was still working on it, after all. This is only the third time I've played it."

"You have a marvellous gift," Beran said.

"Can you teach me to play like that?" Martin asked at the same time.

All laughed.

"I'd be happy to teach you," Lark said. "But it will take a lot of practice, you know."

"I know," Martin said. "When can we start?"

Lark laughed. "At least let me get settled in Chorrol. Then we can work out when and where your lessons can take place."

"Wonderful," Martin said. "Oh! The dishes!" He stood up. "I'll be right back." He dashed outside and his mother smilingly followed to help him.

Lark noticed that Beran was watching him intently again. "What?" he asked.

"You remind me of someone," Beran said slowly. "Fifteen years ago a man brought Martin to us. He asked us to raise and protect him. At the time, I thought that it was chance that brought him to us, but now…"

Lark quailed inwardly. It seemed that his cover was blown and he could not think what he had done wrong. Beran was incredibly perceptive. Lark knew without a doubt that if he denied Beran's speculations, the man would sense his lying and would never trust him. And Lark needed Beran's trust if he was to have access to Martin.

"Now?" he asked gently.

"Now you've come, and you instantly charmed my Martin, and he doesn't take to people quickly. And there is something in your manner… Are you of Martin's real kin?"

"No," Lark replied. "But I, too, have been asked to look out for him and protect him."

"By his father?" Beran asked. "The man who brought him?"

"I've never met his father," Lark said truthfully. "But yes, the man who brought him sent me."

"Who is he?"

How much to tell, Lark wondered. "His name is Jauffre," he said. "He serves in the Order of Talos in the Imperial City." That was true enough. The Blades have always been connected with the Order of Talos.

"Jauffre," Beran repeated. "Where did he get Martin?"

"I don't know the whole story," Lark said. "I'd guess someone left the baby with the Order, and Jauffre found him a home."

"And will he want him back?"

Lark realised that Beran was desperately afraid that he would lose Martin, although he was hiding it well. "He told me to teach Martin to defend himself, so that he could live his life in safety without knowing his true legacy, whatever that may be." He looked Beran in the eyes. "You do not need to fear for your son."

Beran held his gaze for a while, then nodded and slowly smiled. "No, I can see I do not. You'll be staying, then?"

"For as long as necessary," Lark said, and they both knew that it was a lifetime commitment. What Beran guessed about Martin's origins, Lark could not tell, but he felt certain Beran would keep it to himself.

"Well," Lark said. "I'd better get to Chorrol and find a place to stay."

"I'll ride along," Beran said, surprising him. "I have business in town."

So it came that Lark entered Chorrol accompanied by Beran, Martin and three cows on their way to market. Somehow, he had become part of the family, and when he took his leave of them he missed them immediately, as he had never missed his real family. It felt right to know that he would see them again soon.

_To be continued..._

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time a bit... Lark's songs are mine though...


	3. Choices in life

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 3: Choices in life**

Martin opened the door.

The smell of cheap wine and ale wafted into his face along with the sounds of a fair number of people talking, cheering and whistling. Through the din the sound of a lute was audible, as Lark finished off a song. The lunch crowd at the Grey Mare hooted appreciatively.

Martin stepped inside and found a place along the wall. The common room was packed to capacity and Martin reflected that Lark was very good for business. He knew the landlord paid Lark well for his lunchtime performances.

The red-haired minstrel smiled at his audience. "I can do one more," he said, as they quieted down. "Any requests?"

"Cyrodiil Girls!" someone yelled from the back, and the request was seconded by a chorus of other voices.

Lark nodded and swung into the rollicking tune he'd composed less than a week ago. Martin had even helped him with some of the rhymes.

"_Come closer friends and hearken to me.  
__I have travelled far and wide you see,  
__And I have met girls in every town...  
__But Cyrodiil ladies brought me down._"

The song was already so popular that people sang the punch line of every verse along with him, and one man pulled out a wooden flute and played along as Lark continued.

"_In Anvil I was a sailor's mate.  
__Sea shanties I sang and fish I ate.  
__Anvil's girls were pretty as can be...  
__But none of them ever looked at me!_

_A light fingered dame from wet Bravil  
__Told me one day to keep very still.  
__She relieved me of my hard-earned gold...  
__And told me also I was too old!_

_Snowy Bruma felt so very cold  
__But for a short while my heart was sold.  
__Frosty those tall Nord ladies were not...  
__But I found their tempers way too hot!_

_I fell for an elf in Cheydenhal:  
__A dark pretty lady six feet tall.  
__She had blue skin and piercing red eyes...  
__She called me 'fetcher' and said goodbye!_

_In mountainy Chorrol I did see  
__The tall beauty of the great oak tree.  
__With pretty girls in the shade I spoke...  
__But for one of them my poor heart broke!_

_In Kvatch on its high mountain top  
__An Arena lady made me stop.  
__In her presence I was never bored...  
__Trying to get away from her sword!_

_Lovely Leyawiin on Topal Bay  
__Is bright and cheery as they all say.  
__Argonian and Kajeet girls rock...  
__But when one kissed me it was a shock!_

_In Skingrad Hightown I shared some wine  
__With a pretty lass I would call mine.  
__Oh she liked the wine but then told me...  
__She would rather stay with Surile!_

_I strolled one day by White Gold Tower  
__With a girl pretty as a flower  
__She saw a guard in shiny armour...  
__They left - that was the last I saw her!_

_Oh in all my travels I have been  
__To every town yet I have seen  
__The only place I would rather be...  
__Is where a pretty girl smiles at me!"_

Lark drew to a close with a flourish, which left the crowd breathless and laughing with shared excitement. He stood up and took a bow to prolonged applause. "Thank you, friends." He accepted their praise – and coins – with becoming modesty. When things had quieted down he took the lute and made his way to where Martin sat.

"Here you go," Lark said, handing some coins to Martin. "Your fee for helping me write the song."

Martin grinned. "I just wish I could sing like you. I could make my own fortune and not wait for handouts from my master."

"You do well enough," Lark said, ruffling Martin's hair. "Come on, this place is too crowded for talk."

They made their way outside and wandered up the street, settling finally on a bench under the Oak. Martin said nothing as they walked, thinking about his training and his future. Lark had taught him many things over the last three years. In some he excelled and in others he was merely competent. Although he could play the lute he could never do the extraordinary things Lark could do with it. Martin had proved much more apt with a blade, but his true talent lay with magic.

When Lark had offered to teach him some spells helpful in combat situations, they had both been surprised at how easily he had picked up the skill. This had recalled his childhood fascination with magic, and he had told Lark about the cave and the books he had never showed to his father. On one of their expeditions they had gone there and with some work had cleared the closed-off tunnel.

Inside all had been as Martin had last seen it, ten years before. They had gathered the books and scrolls and took them outside into the sunlight, and, perusing them, Lark had expressed some doubt about the contents.

"I'm no expert," he had said. "But I think these deal with Deadric magic." He had shaken his head. "My advice is, stay away from this stuff. We can rather find someone to teach you regular magic. This is bad news."

Martin had nodded in agreement, and they had stacked the books back inside the cave. He had believed Lark's advice, but as time passed, he sometimes found himself daydreaming about the strange symbols he had seen fleetingly in the leaf-dappled sunlight.

He had learned some more spells from a man at the Mages Guild, and as he learned his craving for knowledge increased. Finally he had come to a decision, but he needed Lark's help if he was to have any chance in succeeding in his ambition. This brought him back to the present, sitting under the Oak with Lark telling some story about someone at the castle.

"… So Count Valga ordered an inspection," he was saying. "And the Guard turned out in the castle courtyard, all shiny armour and buckles, you know." He laughed. "And Captain Gerontius walked up and down the parade, the Count at his side, with 'Kick me!' stuck to the back of his cuirass… and no-one said a word! Can you imagine that? Lucius tells me he almost died holding back his laughter."

Martin smiled distractedly. "Very funny, yes."

Lark gave him a searching look. "Alright, what's the matter?"

"I want to join the Mages Guild," Martin came straight to the point. Lark was his friend and mentor. He knew he could tell Lark anything, without wondering what he would think or whether he would approve.

Lark lifted an eyebrow at that. "Good idea, what's the problem?"

"My father," Martin sighed. "I don't think he will like the idea."

Lark considered for a moment. "Well, you may be right about that, but there's no harm in trying, don't you think? Do you want me to come along?"

"Oh, would you?" Martin brightened. His father respected Lark's opinions.

"Sure," Lark grinned. "Let's go. If we time it right I can scrounge some dinner from your mother."

Martin had to laugh at that. Lark never seemed to miss an opportunity to join them for dinner. "You must really love Mother's cooking," he remarked.

"Mostly I like leaving you with more dishes to wash," Lark said, ducking under the playful punch that Martin aimed at him. He grabbed Martin's arm and quickly immobilized him. "Are we sparring or going?"

"Going, going," Martin laughed as Lark let him go. As always the minstrel was too quick for him, but Lark's easy company made him forget his apprehension at facing his father as they got their horses from the stable and set off for the farm.

_To be continued..._

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time a bit... Lark's songs are mine though.


	4. Letting go

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 4: Letting go**

Beran frowned.

Martin, watching him anxiously, plunged ahead. "It's the one thing I'm really good at, Father," he tried to explain. "I want to learn more."

Beran shook his head. "It's too dangerous. Besides, you have your responsibilities here on the farm."

He turned away as if that ended the discussion, and Martin bit back bitter words as he shot a pleading look at Lark, sitting quietly in the corner. Lark spread his heads to indicate his helplessness, and Martin suddenly could not stand to be in the room any longer.

"I'll go see to my responsibilities, then," he said quietly to mask his anger, and turned and went outside.

"You'll lose him if you don't let him go," Lark said mildly as the door swung shut.

Beran rounded on him. "You! You caused this! You encouraged him in this madness!"

Lark stood up to confront Beran on equal height. "His talent is in his blood, Beran. I would not dare suppress it and neither should you. You will have to face some hard facts today. Martin is not your son; his destiny and legacy are not to be hindered by such as you and I. Can you really see him growing old here on this farm, surrounded by cows?"

"I could wish such peace for him," Beran said hoarsely. "But tell me the truth today – if today I must face facts. Who is Martin's father? For I know that you know who it is."

Lark took a moment to answer. When he did, his voice was low and steady. "You also know that I can't tell you that. Suffice it to say that he is noble born and leave it at that." At Beran's reluctant nod he continued. "Martin is like a flame in darkness; if you refuse his dreams you will douse that flame and the world will be a darker place."

Beran sighed and sat down, gesturing for Lark to do the same. "I just want him to be safe," he said earnestly.

"I know that," Lark said. "But I really think you'll do better to let him pursue his dreams. He is too young to be content with the simple life you offer him. If you refuse him, he will run away to do his own thing, and you won't see him again." He pushed a hand through his hair. "What do you have against the Mages Guild in any case? It's an honourable profession, and Martin is more than old enough to become an apprentice."

"My youngest brother joined the Guild," Beran explained. "He was so excited about it, about the things he learned and the work he did. One day he was sent on some errand and was attacked by necromancers. My brother was slain in some old ruin, still in his youth. He had never really lived his life. I can't stand the thought of Martin..."

"I'm sorry," Lark said awkwardly as Beran choked to silence. "I can understand how you feel."

"I don't think you can," Beran said, his eyes flashing. "You did not raise my boy from infancy. You did not soothe his fears, you did not ..."

"No, I did not," Lark interrupted. "But I am his friend and I love him as a brother. I do not wish to see him come to any harm, but I also don't wish to see his spirit broken."

Beran lowered his eyes. "I am sorry, Lark. You are right. You have been nothing but a friend to us and I have no right to talk as I did."

Lark smiled. "It's alright, my friend. I do understand." He stood up. "I must go. It is getting dark and I have to sing tonight. You will talk to Martin, won't you?"

"That I will," Beran replied. "I may not like it, but you are right about Martin. I will let him do what he wants." He clapped Lark on the shoulder. "You are a wiser man than I."

"Not wiser," Lark said. "But perhaps more objective in this matter. You are a sensible man, Beran. I would hate to see your heart ignore your head and cause you unnecessary pain."

"That sounds cold," Beran said.

"It is, and it isn't," Lark smiled. "If I was wise, I would be able to explain it better." He picked up his lute, forgotten next to his chair. "Goodbye, my friend."

When he got outside he found Martin in the stables, currying the horses. In stead of speaking Lark gave him a grin, a thumbs-up and a gesture to go into the house. Martin's eyes widened incredulously, then he turned and dashed for the door.

Lark laughed to himself as he saddled Pavan for the ride back to town.

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time a bit...


	5. Consequences

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

Warning: This is kind of scary, for me at least ;-)

**Part 5: Consequences**

The darkness seethed.

Martin cradled Lark's body against him while he kept the creatures in the dark at bay with spell, sword and sheer willpower. He felt that if they could only survive till dawn, all would be well, but he had long since lost track of time in the all-consuming darkness.

Something lashed out through his defenses and claws tore at his robe. He jerked back and lost his grip on the unconscious minstrel, who toppled to the ground. Martin didn't know whether Lark was still alive. In sudden despair he found hidden reserves, and launched himself at the undead creatures with a great cry.

His sword flew, and his spells spread destruction wherever they hit. As his levels of magicka depleted, Martin felt a growing fear that he would not last the fight, but when he knew that he could do no more, he found that there were no more to face, for the moment. He had prevailed. The cavern floor was strewn with the remains of the undead, but nothing stirred in the darkness and the whispers had ceased.

He stumbled to where Lark lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, and sank down beside him, fearing to find that his friend had died during the fight. To his relief the minstrel was still alive, and watching him. His pain-filled eyes were lucid again as he spoke softly. "All that sword practice was worth it."

Martin tried to laugh, but found his eyes filling with tears. "Forgive me, my friend," he said. "I should have listened to you." He swallowed. "I have been a fool." Lark merely nodded in agreement. Martin smiled at that. "Yes, you have every right to blame me." He sobered. "I have caused the death of my friends, and if I don't heal you soon, yours as well."

He busied himself making Lark more comfortable, folding his cloak as a pillow for the minstrel's head. "I need a few minutes to regain some magicka." He settled down next to Lark. "You rest now, I'll watch over you." He watched as Lark dropped off into an exhausted sleep as he replayed the events of the last few days over and over in his head.

--

It was the lure of knowledge, he told himself, but he knew in his heart it was rather the seduction of the power such knowledge could give him, that made him follow the lore of Daedric magic. Against all the rules of the Mages Guild, against the council of his father and his mentor, Lark, he pursued his unhealthy obsession with the darker arts to the extreme. And, caught in his wake like stars in the tail of a comet, had come his fellow apprentices, lured by his expositions on the duty of mages to know and harness all power – to be used for the good of the Empire, of course.

When he mentioned that he believed Daedric Shrines had power imbued in their very structure, someone in his group of followers had suggested that they try their experiments to summon a Daedra Prince at such a shrine in stead of in the woods out of sight from the town, where they had met no success.

Martin had agreed and they enthusiastically planned the expedition. Almost as an afterthought Martin had mentioned the whole thing to Lark, who had vehemently tried to dissuade him. But Martin's mind was made up, and Lark had reluctantly decided to join them, to "keep you out of trouble."

But none of them could ever have imagined the trouble they were getting themselves into. In an underground shrine devoted to an unknown Daedra Lord, they had cast their spells. Martin's idea had worked. The Daedra Prince had appeared through the shimmering portal they had created, glared contemptuously at them, shrugged off their command spells as if they were of no consequence, and had proceeded to wreak havoc amongst them.

Martin recalled with horror how his friends had died. Some, torn limb from limb by the awful strength of the thing. Some he merely picked up and smashed to the ground. Martin had been flung to the side and had seen when Lark hit the cavern wall. One unfortunate apprentice had been tossed through the portal to Oblivion knows what. Then the Daedra prince had stepped through with a last snarl at Martin. "Your protection will not last, boy!"

The portal collapsed and they were left in utter darkness. Too shocked by the events to give any thought to the Daedra's words, Martin had gathered up his surviving followers and Lark, and they had tried to go back to the surface, but somewhere they had lost their way. They had been attacked again and again, and after every skirmish there were fewer of them left. After what seemed like days to Martin, only Lark remained, and the minstrel was too weak to cast spells to heal himself, and all of Martin's energy was spent in fighting back the hordes of undead.

--

A fool indeed, Martin reflected. But now his only concern was to heal Lark before the man expired from his wounds. His magicka restored, Martin cast a healing spell on Lark, watching in satisfaction as wounds closed and bruises faded. After a while Lark woke.

"Welcome back," Martin said. "How do you feel?"

Lark's eyes looked peculiar in the light of Martin's spell. "I don't know," he said hesitantly. "I feel... strange."

"I can cast another healing," Martin said, getting ready.

"No, wait," Lark forestalled him. "I feel fine, really, it's just..."

Martin looked at him closely, noticing that Larked seemed very pale. And his eyes...

"Oh no," he said softly. "Lark, those vampires..."

"How long ago was that?" Lark asked. "Three days? And I've slept..." He trailed off. The thought was in both their minds. Vampirism has no cure. "No, not that," he muttered. "Martin, I couldn't stand it."

"Perhaps we're wrong," Martin tried to reassure his friend. "It can't have been three days. You should be fine, it will go away now that I've healed you."

Lark shook his head. "Healing is not the same as curing disease, you know that."

Martin sat back, stumped. He had no Cure Disease potions, and no spells to do the same. The only hope was to get Lark to a temple, but he feared they were too late already. And from the look in his pale red eyes, Lark knew it too.

"Well, this wasn't part of the plan, was it?" Lark asked, trying hard to hide his fear, but he did not fool either of them.

"We'll figure something out, Lark," Martin said. "Somehow, we'll work it out."

--

It took them two more days to fight their way back to known tunnels. As the time went by, Lark showed more and more symptoms of the awful disease he had contracted. His pale skin and sunken cheeks sharply reminded Martin of the terrible consequences of his rashness. Not only had he caused the deaths of his Mages Guild friends, he was the sole reason why Lark would now be forced to live an eternity enshrouded in darkness, feeding on the lifeblood of living beings.

In a world where vampires were despised as foul animals, Lark would be hunted by everyone, other vampires included. Never again would he sing for his supper in a tavern common room. Never again would his marvelous voice entertain his listeners.

Martin sunk into deep despair, while Lark, strangely, came to be resigned with his plight. As his symptoms worsened, he also became aware of the new abilities that he developed. His reflexes and speed increased until he could dart through the cavern like a shadow, making no sound. He could see in the dark, and he could detect living and undead with sight and hearing so acute, it astonished him that he ever thought he was good at it before.

But in him grew a hunger – a craving so intense that it caused him agony. He suppressed it, and said nothing to Martin, determined never to feed on a person, even if it meant starving to death.

--

Martin woke during one of their rest periods to find Lark – who was taking first watch – in agony on the ground. Martin ran to his friend, realizing that Lark had not fed since he had contracted Porphyric Hemophilia.

"What a fool I am!" he cursed himself for the added pain his inattentiveness had cost his friend. He tried to calm Lark, but the minstrel moaned and tossed and showed no recognition when Martin spoke to him. Not knowing what else to do, Martin cut his wrist, and as the blood welled up, forced Lark's mouth open and let the blood drip in a steady stream down his throat.

After a while Lark stopped struggling and swallowed. The next moment instinct finally took over as he grabbed Martin's arm and bit down. Martin grew dizzy as his blood was drained, until he became afraid that he would pass out.

"Lark!" he cried, trying to get his attention, but the vampire paid no heed. In desperation Martin slapped Lark with his free hand. "Lark! Please!" As his sight dimmed he felt the pressure on his wrist ease, and then he knew nothing more.

Lark came to himself out of an ecstasy like nothing he had ever experienced before. The warm blood sang through his veins like fire. It was like being born into light. He felt alive like never before. He glanced around with his new-found perspective, and suddenly became aware of his surroundings. Next to him lay Martin, pale as death, blood still pumping from a cut and two puncture wounds on his wrist. Lark finally realized what he had done.

He grabbed Martin's arm and tried to staunch the bleeding, tearing strips from his shirt to bind the wounds. Then he cast a healing spell, and then another, desperately trying to save Martin's life. At last the spells began to make a difference. Martin's colour improved and his wounds closed. Then he regained consciousness. As soon as he opened his eyes Lark was urging him to his feet.

"Move, boy!" he said, handing Martin his pack.

"What's going on?" Martin asked in confusion. The last thing he remembered was his blood draining from his veins, and now Lark would not even stop to talk about it.

"I don't know enough about this foul disease," Lark snarled. "If I just infected you, you need to get to a temple as soon as possible." He shouldered his own pack. "Come on."

Martin followed in dazed comprehension.

--

At last they found the way out, and came to the exit of the cavern just as dawn was breaking. Lark could feel his skin hurting with even the barest amount of sunlight falling on him. He ducked back into the shade of the cave.

"I can't come with you," he told Martin. "Go on without me."

"I won't leave you!" Martin protested.

"You have to," Lark said forcefully. "I didn't protect you all these years just to turn you into a vampire now. Don't worry, I'll make my way to your secret cave, travelling by night. Get yourself cured, just in case, and meet me there when you can."

Martin was not sure that he believed Lark would really go to the cave. He suspected Lark would disappear into the darkness to try and end his life there. "I want your promise that you'll come," he said, holding Lark's gaze with his own. "Your oath."

"I swear, Martin," Lark said earnestly. "I will meet you there. Now go!"

With that he darted into the shadows so quickly that Martin could not see him move. Martin sighed, then stepped out of the cavern and started the long walk back to the town. He had thirty-six hours to get to a temple. Thirty-six hours were enough: Enough to beat into him with every step that he did not deserve to live; that his ambition and lust for power could never again be allowed to rule his life, and that he should spend his life somehow trying to make amends for his folly.

The temple of Akatosh welcomed him when he arrived. The humble brothers cured him, fed him, gave him comfort. In their ministrations he found a kind of peace in himself, and he resolved to join the order as soon as he could tear himself free of the life and debts he had created for himself. Lark waited in the dark, and that was one debt he could never settle.

To be continued...

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time and dark dungeons a bit...


	6. Taking leave

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 6: Taking leave**

The cave mouth gaped ominously.

Martin tethered the pack horse and removed the bundles tied to the saddle. He stacked them just inside the cave, then, carrying only Lark's lute - retrieved with his other belongings from his rooms in town - entered hesitantly.

It had taken him a week to get back from Kvatch, finalize his dealings with his guild, send his regrets and apologies to the families of his slain friends, get Lark's things and make the trek to the cave.

He worried that Lark would not be there. There were so many things that could have befallen him. He could have been attacked again in the terrible cavern where Martin had left him. He could have been caught outside without shelter from the sun. He could by now have starved because Martin was certain that Lark would never hunt people to survive as a vampire.

So he entered the cave with trepidation. As he made his way inside he called down the dark corridor. "Lark? Are you here?"

He heard only the barest rustle as Lark practically materialized next to him. He swallowed a startled exclamation because the minstrel-turned-vampire had eyes only for the lute.

"Finally," Lark exclaimed, removing the lute from Martin's unresisting fingers. "Listen to this!" Without pause he started picking a tune. "Remember the stag? I was hiding in a hollow log the other morning and guess what I saw?" With that he started singing.

_"When slanted rays of light  
__Adorn the wood in pools of gold  
__And the last vestiges of night  
__Disappear into morning cold_

_When the forest evergreen  
__Resounds with the daily song of praise  
__And flowers with a dewdrop sheen  
__Spread their petals in the haze_

_Then he comes slipping through the trees again  
__Ever aware of possible danger  
__Looks in the water and sees again  
__The face of that familiar stranger"_

He finished with a flourish. "There, what do you think?"

Martin gaped at him in astonishment, finally finding his voice as Lark impatiently cleared his throat. "It's very beautiful, Lark. You were hiding in a log?"

Lark grimaced - a startling sight as his canines gleamed. "Where are my manners? Come inside, let's not talk in the corridor." He drew Martin into the furnished cave. "Sit down, will you? Yes, I was caught without shelter coming here. The log had an excellent view over a pond, though, and it did the job it was supposed to do. And I had a lot of time that day to compose the song." He stroked the lute lovingly. "I am glad you brought this to me. It's been hard without music."

Martin realized that Lark was feeling as awkward as he did, and was talking to keep them from staring at each other in silence. He decided gratefully to play along. "I brought the rest of your things, too," he said. "Your landlord sends his regards."

"His regards? What did you tell him?"

"Only that you had decided to stay on in Kvatch for a while," Martin said, feeling guilty about the lie. "I couldn't tell him about... you know..."

They stared at each other in silence.

At last Lark shrugged. "I suppose not. You didn't tell anyone the truth?"

Martin shook his head. "I told them about what had happened at the shrine, to the apprentices. I didn't talk about you."

"I see. And what did they say?"

"I've been expelled from the Mages Guild," Martin said.

"I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright. If they hadn't done it, I would have left in any case." Martin sighed. "I've decided to do something worthwhile with my life."

"Really?" Lark said. "And what is that?"

"I'm joining the order of Akatosh in Kvatch," Martin said. "Perhaps by helping others I can atone for what I've done."

"You're leaving?" Lark could not keep the hurt from his voice.

Martin heard it. "I am so sorry, Lark. I'm abandoning you just when you need me most. If I could somehow cure you, you know I would. But I can't spend the rest of my life looking after you..." He heard how callous his words sounded but could not recall them to his mouth. "Oh, this is coming out all wrong," he groaned. "Forgive me."

Lark smiled a sharp-toothed smile. "No, you're right," he said. "I can't expect you to keep a pet vampire secretly in a cave. I have to adapt and live my... unlife... as best I can. But I did hope to at least see you now and again."

"Why?" Martin asked. "Why would you want to see me? You should hate me for what happened. I can barely stand myself as it is."

"I could never hate you," Lark said simply. "And I don't blame you, either. I went along of my own accord, and I was willing to face the risks. I'm sorry if I sound bitter, it's taking some getting used to, but it is not your fault."

Martin nodded dubiously. "If you say so. In any case, I will come to see you whenever I visit my parents. In the meantime, is there anything that you need? Something I could help you with?"

"I have two favours to ask," Lark said. "First, could you give this to Lucius at the Chorrol garrison?" He handed a cloth-wrapped parcel to Martin. "It contains letters to my family and so on. He'll make sure they get where they need to go."

"Of course," Martin said.

"Secondly," Lark said. "I need some cattle."

"What?" Martin was shocked. He knew that vampires kept people submissive with charm spells, to feed on, and that such people were called 'cattle'. He could not believe that Lark would even contemplate such a thing. "You can't mean..."

Lark laughed. "I meant the kind that goes 'moo', Martin. Two or three will do." At Martin's incredulous look he explained. "Any blood can keep me going. I've been catching deer to stay alive, but a cow or two won't even miss the blood, they're so large. And I won't have to range so far out to hunt."

"I understand," Martin said, relieved. "I'll see what I can do."

"Just tell your father," Lark suggested. "I'd prefer it that he knows the truth about... me."

"Alright," Martin said. "Anything else?"

"No, I think that's it," Lark said. "Just..."

"Yes?"

"Promise me that you won't dwell on this. If you find your place amongst the brothers of Akatosh, do that wholeheartedly. Don't let the past spoil your future."

"I will try," Martin said. "Farewell, Lark. Thanks for everything."

Lark smiled. "No need for thanks, my friend." He considered something for a moment. "I guess you should call me 'Nightingale' from now on - I won't be singing in the sun anymore."

Martin tried to laugh. "Then I'll listen for your song in the night." He embraced Lark. "Goodbye." Letting go, he whirled and strode from the cave into daylight, not heeding the tears that streamed down his face.

To be continued...

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time and dark dungeons a bit...


	7. Helping Hands

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 7: Helping hands**

Lark woke to the sound of hammering.

Instantly awake and wary, he tried to think what could cause such a sound. The only thing that came to mind was that the locals were boarding up the cave with him inside it. He moved surely through the dark corridor, his enhanced senses making it as clear as daylight. As he came into view of the cave entrance he had to squint against the brightness. It was daytime, and although the glare was painful, he could see enough to realize that there was no-one at the door. The noise was coming from further away.

Carefully moving forward, his eyes adapting to the light, he finally reached a position that allowed him to see outside while still under the shade of the rock. To his astonishment, he saw Beran Retienne busy constructing what looked like a corral. A horse-drawn cart was stacked with boards which Beran was nailing together into fencing, a gate and a little shed.

"What in the world are you doing, Beran?" Lark asked from his doorway.

Beran dropped the hammer and came closer. He stared at Lark for a moment. "Oh Lark," he sighed. "I almost didn't believe Martin, it's just too horrible."

Lark smiled. "Nothing to be done about it now," he said. "But what are you doing?"

"Martin said you needed cows," Beran replied. "So I'm just setting up a corral for them."

"Two or three cows!" Lark protested. "This thing could hold twenty!"

Beran nodded resolutely. "Yes, well, I've been thinking. If I build a large corral and keep twenty cows here, and have somebody in my employ living here to look after them and milk them, it would make perfect sense to everyone. This cave is still on my farm, and it lies on my route to town. Now..." He held up a hand to forestall Lark's interruption. "Now I figure since you want to feed on my cows, the least you can do is to milk them and leave the cans here ready for me to pick up in the mornings. And I won't even charge you to live on my property."

Lark listened in amazement as Beran gave him safety, food and a plausible reason to be where he was. "Beran, I... this is incredible! Are you sure?"

"Of course, I'm sure," Beran said gruffly. "You've been a good friend to us all these years; you've become part of the family. And besides," he winked. "I can make a nice profit farming twenty more cows."

Lark laughed. "Then I accept! I won't stand between a businessman and his profit."

"Good," Beran said. "Let me get back to work. You can go back to sleep – you'll need the rest. When I bring the cows you'd better be ready to do some work." He laughed. "I bet you'll be the only cow-herd working at night."

Lark agreed. "As long as the cows don't mind. Oh, and Beran?"

"Yes?"

"You'd better teach me how to milk them."

--

Jauffre opened the parcel that had been sent to him from Chorrol. It did not conform to Lark's normal reports, being written on scraps of paper that had seen better days, but it bore Lark's unmistakable handwriting.

_Captain Jauffre,_

_It is my duty to inform you that I can no longer protect Martin as I have done the past eight years. Following a disastrous expedition to a Daedric shrine, Martin has decided to join the Order of Akatosh in Kvatch. I would follow him there but for the fact that during the same disastrous expedition, I had contracted Porphiric Hemophilia. Since I was unable to get a cure in time, I regret to inform you that I have become a vampire._

_I am living for the time being in a cave close to Beran Retienne's farm, where I can come to terms with my new abilities and limitations. I do not know yet what my future plans might be. I do know that there is no plausible reason why Martin would keep a vampire with him at the Temple of Akatosh, so I conclude that my mission has failed – at least to the point of not being able to stay with him. On the other hand, he should be safe at the Temple, and I think that said disastrous expedition may have taught him some humility._

_I remain, of course, a loyal Blade in service to the Empire.  
__Regards, Lark_

Jauffre sat thinking for a moment. Then he rang the little bell that stood on his desk. A young Blade appeared at the door. "Have them saddle a horse for me, and get me provisions for a trip to Chorrol," Jauffre instructed. The Blade saluted and disappeared to do the errand.

--

Jauffre found Beran Retienne's farm without difficulty, even though it had been twenty-three years since his previous visit. But he had no idea where the cave was, so he reluctantly decided to go ask at the farmhouse. He dismounted just as Beran himself came round the corner to see who the visitor was.

When he saw Jauffre he froze for a moment, but then came closer. "Hello again," he greeted Jauffre as if he had seen him only a few days ago. "You'll be looking for Lark, then?"

"I am," Jauffre agreed. "How are you, Beran?"

"We're all fine," Beran shrugged. "But your poor boy, now – he's not so fine." He pointed down the road. "Go down that way about two miles, you'll see a track turn off to the right. Follow that up to the cave."

"Thank you," Jauffre said. "I'll come by here when I head back."

"You'll be welcome," Beran said. "Now mind the cows!"

--

Jauffre did not understand Beran's last remark until he got to the cave, where twenty cows were lazily chewing the cud in the corral. He dismounted and hitched his horse to a fence post. When he stepped inside the cave he took a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, but before he could take another step, he heard a voice.

"Why did you come here?"

"Lark?" Jauffre called. "It's Jauffre."

"Yes, I know," Lark said distantly. "Why have you come?"

"I wanted to see if you're alright," Jauffre said, wondering what the matter was.

"You came all the way for that? You'd better come inside then." Lark was suddenly right next to him and Jauffre gripped his sword. "I won't hurt you," Lark said, aggrieved. "This way."

He lead Jauffre down the corridor that twisted a few times before opening up into a comfortable furnished and well-lit room. "Please sit down. I'd offer you something to drink but all I have are milk and water."

"Water is fine," Jauffre said, watching with awe as his Blade glided about the room. It was hard to see his movements. No wonder vampires inspired such fear. Their powers seemed supernatural, and their reputation as ruthless killers was not undeserved.

Lark handed him a glass. "Now, captain, why did you really come? To see if I'm a threat to anyone? To eliminate the rogue vampire Blade?"

Jauffre sighed. "When did you become so cynical, Lark?"

"When I had to skulk like an animal from cave to cave, and hide like one in hollow logs when I was driven from caves," Lark said bitterly. "I haven't told anyone, but I just barely escaped some 'concerned citizens' who walked into a cave I was sheltering in. They found it expedient to drive me out into sunlight. It's bad to be hunted like that, for nothing I had done."

Jauffre nodded. "I understand, and I'm sorry. It was never my intention that you should come to any harm for doing this. In fact, I wanted you to be safe."

"I know," Lark said. "But what's done is done."

"Yes," Jauffre agreed. "So what do you do now? I suppose you must spend your nights... hunting?" He tried to sound casual, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Lark smiled, showing elongated canines. "In a manner of speaking, I suppose. I spend the night milking cows." He laughed at Jauffre's consternation. "Oh, I get a few sips of blood, but mostly it's milk, yes. I leave the full cans for Beran to collect on his way to town, and he brings back the empties when he returns in the afternoon." He picked up his lute. "I also serenade the moon on occasion."

Jauffre smiled. "Still singing?"

"That's what's hardest about this," Lark said. "I miss having an audience. The cows really don't seem to have an ear for music."

"Tone-deaf." Jauffre suggested.

"Yes."

"Well, I have an idea," Jauffre said. "You are still a Blade, and there is no reason why you should be all alone. You can go stay at Cloud Ruler Temple, where you will be accepted and welcome, and where you can sing to your heart's content. Beran can find someone else to milk his cows. What do you say?"

The unshed, bloody tears in Lark's eyes, and the incredulous joy on his face was all the answer Jauffre needed.

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time and dark dungeons a bit...


	8. Reunion

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Part 8: Reunion**

"This way, Your Majesty."

Jauffre lead Martin into Cloud Ruler Temple's main hall, explaining the layout of the building as he went. "To the left are the living quarters. Your room will be upstairs, I think. And to the right is the mess hall." He regarded Martin closely. "What is the matter, Your Majesty?"

Martin sighed, pushing a weary hand through his hair. "Just tired. Please Jauffre, call me Martin. I can't think with all of you calling me Highness and Majesty like I'm someone special."

Jauffre nodded in agreement, but Martin could almost see him decide to slip in a few honorifics all the same. He supposed he could not blame the Blades for their joy in discovering an heir to the Septim throne after they had lost all hope, but he kept looking around to see the important person they were addressing.

Jauffre was leading him to his room. "If you're tired, perhaps you would like to get some rest. It's been a long journey and you've had a lot of shocks. Baurus here will bring your supper." He indicated a Redguard Blade standing at attention.

"Your Majesty! I shall die to protect you!"

"Let's hope you won't need to, Blade," Martin said, feeling overwhelmed. "But supper would be nice."

"At once, Your Majesty!" Baurus disappeared in the direction of the mess hall.

"What's with him?" Martin asked Jauffre as they climbed the stairs.

Jauffre smiled. "Forgive Baurus for his enthusiasm. He blames himself for the Emperor's death, even though there is nothing he could have done. He is overjoyed to have an Emperor to protect once more."

"I see."

Jauffre opened a sliding door, revealing a large room with a bed, table and washing facilities. "I hope this will suffice," he said. Martin could hear the unspoken 'Your Majesty' all too clearly.

Smiling, he shook his head. "This is ample, my friend. My room at the Temple in Kvatch was little more than a cell."

"Then I'll leave you to get settled in," Jauffre said. "Good night... Martin."

"Good night Jauffre. And... thank you."

Jauffre nodded and closed the door as he left. Martin looked around the room, debating whether to just fall into bed and sleep, or whether to wash up a bit first. He remembered that there was still supper to come, so he postponed the sleeping. He was plunging his face into the water when there was a soft knock on the door. "Come in," he called through the drops. "Just put it on the table, please."

When he had rinsed his face and dried it, he finally noticed that it was not Baurus who had brought the tray of food. This person was dressed in a dark green robe and a hood that shaded his face so that only an impression of eyes and features could be seen. "I'm sorry, did you need anything?" Martin asked when the robed man said nothing.

"Hello Martin," the figure finally spoke.

Marting recognized the voice after a moment. "Lark? Is that you?"

Lark threw back the hood, revealing his pale face and red eyes. "None other."

"I thought you were dead!" Martin exclaimed. "It's been ten years. When my father told me that you had left, and I heard nothing from you, I thought..."

"I'm sorry," Lark said. "I couldn't tell you where I'd gone; this place is kept hidden, after all."

"You've been here all this time? But, why would the Blades let you stay here?" Martin was having trouble keeping all the revelations straight in his head.

"I am a Blade," Lark explained patiently. "When they heard that I'd become a vampire, they recalled me to Cloud Ruler Temple, where I could live in safety." He noted Martin's growing comprehension. "Yes, I was a Blade when we met. I'd been assigned to teach you self-defense and to protect you."

Martin shook his head. "This is... too much," he said, swaying on his feet.

Instantly Lark was at his side, supporting him until he could sit down. "Here, eat something," Lark said firmly. "They tell me you'd journeyed here without pause, from Kvatch? And you've been attacked several times?" Martin nodded, chewing bread. "Then you really have had too much, I agree."

He refused to answer any more questions, and made sure that Martin ate enough to satisfy him. "Now, get some rest," he instructed finally. "We'll talk in the morning."

Martin, too tired to protest, meekly lay down as Lark snuffed the candles. As he slipped into sleep he thought he heard the vampire speak.

"Good night... Your Majesty."

--

They were standing on the buttress, overlooking Bruma in the early hours before dawn. "Other vampires no doubt find me rather pathetic," Lark was saying. "I live on the blood from the venison the huntsmen bring in every day." He smiled. "But I must be the only vampire in history who has drunk the blood of a Septim."

Martin grinned. "Not by your choice, though."

"Even better," Lark agreed. "A Septim volunteered me his blood."

"I didn't know I was a Septim then," Martin disavowed. "It doesn't count."

"Will you take away everything I could boast of?" Lark asked melodramatically.

"I would volunteer you my Septim blood rather than do that," Martin said earnestly. "I owe you too much."

Lark shook his head. "Now you've gone and spoiled a perfectly good moment with unwarranted sentimentality."

A passing Blade on patrol gasped as he overheard Lark. Apparently one does not address one's Emperor-in-waiting like that.

Martin laughed. "How do you get away with that? You don't seem to be under the same rules of hierarchy as the other Blades."

"I'm a close personal friend of the Emperor's," Lark explained, straight-faced. "Besides, they've long ago given up trying to fit me to the mold. I got the job to teach you because even then it was obvious I would bend the rules and break the mold." He smiled his toothy smile. "Now, I think they've finally gotten used to me. And of course, I'm a living legend, for my singing."

"Your modesty is awesome indeed," Martin said. "It's so good to have you here as a friend; one who isn't bowing and scraping to me all the time, although I have done nothing to deserve it."

Lark turned to look at him. "I do my bowing and scraping when you're not looking, Martin. You may think you've done nothing, but you've given these people – all of Tamriel – hope." He gestured out over the sleeping town. "And I have a feeling you will still get to earn all that respect." A moment of silence. "Oh, look at that; dawn is breaking." He turned and started walking back along the wall. "I'm off to bed for a nap, Your Majesty. If you'll excuse me?"

"Certainly," Martin said, following him. "I'm for the books, I think. There's a lot to learn and not much time to do it."

"You were always a quick learner," Lark quipped. "You'll do well enough!"

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time and dark dungeons a bit...

**Author's Note: **

Those of you who've been adding up the years will notice that Martin is 33 now. When I decided to write this story I tried to get as much information from the game as possible, so I used the Construction Set to see what ages Bethesda had made the characters. According to the CS, Jauffre is 60, and Martin is 50. This seems impossible, as Jauffre had been captain of the Blades when Martin was born. Somehow I doubt he could have been captain at age 10! I guess Bethesda didn't think of that, or otherwise the ages in the CS don't refer to real age, but are just used for generating the faces.

In any case, I decided to keep Jauffe at age 60 for the game (since he'd been "retired" at Weynon Priory), and speculate that he must have been at least 27 when Martin was born, so Martin is 33 at the time of the game, in my story, at least. This makes the Emperor 54 when Martin was born, which is perfectly possible ;-)


	9. Endings

**Snippets of Destiny**

**By Leoni Venter**

**Based on Oblivion by Bethesda Softworks**

**Warning: SPOILERS! SPOILERS! SPOILERS!**

**If you have not completed the Main Quest, this chapter will cause some shocks, so be warned.**

**Part 9: Endings**

Cloud Ruler Temple was in an uproar. Blades were saddling horses and packing provisions for the trip to the Imperial City. They were going as an honour guard to present Martin to the Elder Council. Although they knew that there was still danger from the daedra spawned from Oblivion, all were buoyant with hope after the Hero of Kvatch had returned with the Amulet of Kings. All Martin had to do was light the Dragon Fires and the war against Mehrunes Dagon would be won. Martin would be Emperor, and all would be well.

Lark watched from the sidelines, ignored by everyone as he would take no part in the coming events. When it became clear that he would get no chance to speak to Martin before he left, he made his way to his room and sat there listlessly picking at his lute.

"There you are," Martin said from the door.

"I thought you'd left," Lark said, surprised.

"Not without saying goodbye," Martin said. "Since you can't come with us just yet."

"I wish I could be there in your moment of triumph," Lark said, standing up. "I wish I could see you ascend the throne."

Martin smiled. "I insist that you come to the coronation." He grinned. "What good would it be without my minstrel to witness and commemorate the event with a song?"

Lark swallowed. "Then I shall surely be there, my Lord."

Martin nodded, and the two men clasped hands. "I have to go," Martin said.

"Yes," Lark whispered. "You have to go." He was filled with foreboding but could find no words to express it. He cleared his throat. "Farewell, Martin."

"Come see me in Imperial City," Martin said. "When you can." With that, he turned – cloak swirling – and strode off to meet his destiny.

--

For two days there was silence, then news began to reach those waiting in Cloud Ruler Temple. The Oblivion Crisis was over; Mehrunes Dagon had been defeated in the very streets of Imperial City. The avatar of Akatosh himself had appeared to banish Dagon back to Oblivion. The reports were conflicting as to what exactly had happened. Apparently the Elder Council was still in charge.

It was only when Jauffre returned with the Blades that Lark finally heard what had happened to Martin. How he, confronted with the terrible figure of Dagon in the Imperial City, had lead an attack to reach the Temple of the One. How he had smashed the Amulet of Kings to unleash the power contained within. How he had been transformed into a gigantic fiery dragon; how he had destroyed Dagon and had died there for his people.

Jauffre related all this to the minstrel, who sat quietly with his hood drawn low over his face, listening. "What an Emperor he would have been," Jauffre concluded.

Lark lifted his head to look at him, revealing trails of blood across his cheeks. "What an Emperor he was," he said softly.

--

Moonlight spilled into the roofless ruin of the Temple of the One, throwing the silhouette of the giant stone dragon into sharp relief. Beneath its feet and outstretched wings, a crowd of people stood respectfully as the singer drew to a close.

"_...though mountains crumble, towers fall  
__Strangers overtake these halls  
__Rivers eternal become locked in ice  
__Still we'll remember his sacrifice_

_His triumph stands for all to see  
__A beacon lit for history  
__A flame in darkness, star in space  
__Martin died to save this place."_

There was no applause. People just silently nodded their thanks, and quietly left.

Lark looked up at the dragon. "Well," he said sadly. "I did commemorate your triumph in song, my friend. And I did come to see you." He laid a hand on the stony foot. "It gives me no joy, only sorrow."

There was no reply in the silent night, and the vampire minstrel finally turned to go, trailing his fingers across the stone. A sudden tingle of energy flowed into him from the statue, filling him with joy and contentment. Lark regarded the dragon with astonishment, but nothing more happened.

Softly, almost at a whisper, he began singing once more.

"_For everyone there is a time  
__And a purpose and a place  
__You've left me now, far behind  
__Stepped out of the frantic race_

_But while the twinkle in your eye remains  
__As clear to me now as then  
__I can see you without pain  
__I can hear you once again_

_Your voice and words still reach me  
__Now, though I barely listened then  
__And your courage and wisdom teach me  
__Much more than I can comprehend_

_For everyone there is a time  
__And still a purpose, still a place  
__While you are in this heart of mine  
__And my memory holds your face"_

The moonlight coated the dragon in perfect silver light, and Lark lifted his hood to drink in the sight. The future stretched before him, undetermined, untapped. The past was quiet now, at rest. He was smiling as he left.

The end.

**Disclaimer:** All of Oblivion belongs to Bethesda Softworks. I'm just letting my mind wander through time and dark dungeons a bit... Lark's songs are mine, though.

**Author's Note:**

Well, I've reached an end, so to speak. It was really hard to write the last chapter, and I'm not sure it does what I wanted it to, but I was sitting here crying while I wrote it, which is completely ridiculous and made it hard to see what I was doing. So that's it, for now. I might write some more about Lark, though, but that will be in other stories.

Thanks to my reviewers, it's nice to know people are actually reading my stories ;-)

And my Beta... thanks Mom!

And of course, Bethesda, for making the best game ever, and for giving it engaging characters and great voice actors :-)

Oh! If someone wants to put my little poems to music, please let me know. This is my greatest regret, that I can't compose music. Otherwise, I'd be a minstrel...


End file.
